Window-screens popped open one after the other, and by precisely eighteen, Commandant Atosryua and the twelve ship commanders were assembled.
“About the space for our tactical exercises,” started Atosryua, without preamble. “I was hoping for an astrobase somewhere.”
“Sounds reasonable,” said Deurec, Ship Commander of the Batcaubh. An astrobase had everything ships needed, including resupply facilities, repair and construction shipyards, and recreation spots. As such, the best place to square off against one another was the planar space near the portals that led to an astrobase.
“That being said, Military Command Headquarters is ordering us to train at the Countdom of Hyde.”
The other ship commanders couldn’t hide their confusion. It seemed they all knew about the Countdom. It was exceedingly famous as a territory-nation on the very outskirts of the galactic map. Discovering a human society after such a long stretch of isolation had made quite the stir, and it was also the star system that was the cause for this war, albeit only as a pretext.
Sobash knew too, of course. Hyde was the star fief of a comrade with whom he’d fought side-by-side. Mind, he had no idea why they had to be training in that countdom.
He kept silent, thinking Commandant Atosryua was bound to explain it all. The other ship commanders didn’t say anything, either, awaiting the Commandant’s elucidation. Yet Atosryua appeared to be waiting for someone to ask why, so, sighing inwardly, Sobash reluctantly took it upon himself.
“Why are we to train at the Countdom of Hyde, ma’am? It can’t be undiluted training there, surely.”
“Ostensibly, we were given one reason,” she said. “Military Command HQ wants us to do training exercises that are a step above what I was expecting. They want us honing our strategy, not our tactics. Our training assignment is as follows...”
A window-screen showing the planar space map of the Ileesh Monarchy appeared. The Ileesh Monarchy was peculiarly shaped, compared to its fellows in the Eight Monarchies. It was circular. On the map, two points were flashing on the circle, the distance between them almost equal to the diameter of the circle.
“As you know, the Hyde Portal is the farthest from the Ileesh Portal,” she explained. “In other words, the time it takes to get there is near enough the same, whether you go clockwise or counter-clockwise.”
Two luminous dotted lines extended from both sides of the Ileesh Portal, following the curve of the Ileesh Monarchy until they reached the point of light that represented the Countdom of Hyde on the opposite end of the circle.
“In short, the squadron will be split into two groups, which will compete to gain control over the Hyde Portal faster than the other. Then, whichever of the two couldn’t take it fast enough must attempt to recapture it. That’s our training assignment. The Countdom of Hyde was chosen due to the unique topography. No other territory-nation affords us the same opportunity. Usually, there’s only one shortest route to anywhere from Lacmhacarh. In Ileesh, we can have a fair race. Presumably, the Countdom of Hyde will be the place where newly born ships come of age in the future, too.”
“If that’s the ‘ostensible’ reason, then do you think there’s an ulterior reason, ma’am?” offered Sobash.
“That’s right,” she said, drawing up her shoulders with a self-congratulatory air. “Currently, there are riots occurring in the countdom of Hyde.”
That’s rough, thought Sobash, sympathizing with Jint, though he figured that it was only natural Jint had to face the various irksome obligations that came with reigning over a territory-nation now that he was an active grandee. Jint’s case was special, however, and deserving of his sympathy in one respect. After all, the young man’s father had acted irresponsibly when he himself became a grandee despite having only one child. That one child didn’t have much of a choice.
“So we’re to intimidate the landworld?” asked Roïryac, Ship Commander of the Sircaubh. He was one of the squadron’s two Senior Ship Commanders.
“I think it’s common sense to assume that’s what they expect from us.”
“Then there are no specific orders to do so?” he asked.
“It wouldn’t be an ‘ulterior reason’ otherwise.”
“But does the Countdom of Hyde have all the facilities we’ll need? From a cursory search, the system doesn’t even have proper fuel resupply,” said Serboth, Ship Commander of the Lymcaubh.
“Oh, we can’t complain about that,” said Atosryua. “These raid ships won’t always be fighting on battlefields with lots of facilities. In fact, we should probably think of places without such facilities as better for training exercises. Though that’s just my opinion,” said Atosryua.
“But we don’t have a supply corps accompanying us. Only an incompetent commander would ever send out a trample-blitz squadron without a supply corps,” she replied.
“It’s not impossible, you know. Coming under an incompetent commander. Besides, even a competent one might be compelled to issue utterly daft commands from time to time.”
“Getting forced into such a hopeless situation would have to be the work of an incompetent commander of higher rank.”
“Please, let’s drop this topic, Vice Hecto-Commander Serboth. Otherwise we’ll be here all day. Planar space is vast. There’s no way we can grasp every possible battlefield. Even if every commodore were perfect, a seam can open unexpectedly. And I don’t think for a microsecond that every commodore is, in fact, perfect at all.”
“So long as it’s an order from above, we can’t argue against it,” nodded Serboth begrudgingly.
“Exactly. Anyone else want to complain?” asked Atosryua. Her tone admitted no backtalk, but it wasn’t too hard to tell she herself was hiding how dissatisfied she was with their orders. “No complaints? Then let me split the squadron into two — the Red Team and the Blue Team. The Blue Team will be headed by me. The Red, I give to you, Roiryua.”
“Roger,” said Roiryua.
“You and I are now enemy commanders,” she said. “We each command half of the squadron. I’ve already selected which ships will be on each team. I grant Hecto-Commander Roiryua the right to choose which route each team will travel down.”
“Aren’t we already enemies, ma’am?” Roiryua pointed out. “I don’t need to be taking orders from you, Kilo-Commander. You’re the enemy.”
“I like that personality of yours, Hecto-Commander,” she said, putting a white hand on her forehead. “I have a leather sandbag. Whenever I’m irritated, I give it a punch or two, and let off a tiny bit of steam. I’m going to change that punching bag’s name to yours.”
“Thank you very much,” said Roiryua. “Incidentally, what is your favored punching bag’s current name?”
“This may be a confidential line, but I couldn’t divulge such a secret. In any case, let me amend my statement. You and I will be enemies shortly. As of now, you’re still my subordinate. Got it?”
“Roger that. Now then, I choose the clockwise route.”
“Very well. Now remember, the objective of the exercise is to take and maintain control over the Hyde Portal. The code to suspend the exercise will be the following phrase: ‘True solar flames are blue.’ If you receive the message ‘True solar flames are blue’ through the Camrinic crypto-mode, you will then revert to the original command structure immediately. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Roiryua nodded.
“This confidential line is now the line for the Blue Team. That means that the ships excluded from this line belong to the Red Team. Now then, off we go. From this second onward, you and I are enemies, Hecto-Commander Roiryua.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nearly saluted before stopping himself with a strained smirk.
Then, the video of six of the ship commanders’ window-screens, including Roiryua’s, ceased to transmit.
I suppose this makes me a member of the Blue Team. Sobash didn’t feel strongly one way or the other about that. He didn’t know Hecto-Commander Roiryua well enough.
Besides, this was just an exercise in the end. And he’d have to follow Kilo-Commander Atosryua’s command baton where it counted, too.
“Now then, we’re headed for the Ileesh Portal in a single column at maximum combat acceleration. Go to your respective bridges and issue your orders.”
Samson was in the chicrh ruhyrr (flotilla lessee’s office) of the supply ship Acrych Nata. The planar space map on the floor of the office was showing forty or more space-time bubbles. Each of the bubbles contained only a single ship. Space-time bubbles had a critical mass, and the ships that comprised the borh (flotilla) were so huge they only barely skirted below that limit.
Paper cup in hand, Samson gazed at the map. The flotilla was sailing smoothly. Too smoothly. The man was bored.
Mechanics starpilots were usually needed as specialists of temporary repairs. When voyages were proceeding without a hitch, he had no role to play. Moreover, he was just aboard ship to serve as the Count of Hyde’s proxy; each of those ships already had an inspector supervisor of its own. If issues did arise, they would deal with them. Worse yet, while those inspector supervisors were in the reserves, they were still Mechanics starpilots in rank, with quite a few outranking him.
He heard the sound of footsteps behind him. Samson may not have had frocragh, but he could tell who it was from the sound. He’d known Paveryua for long enough now. He was more than familiar with his subordinate’s mannerisms.
“I really can’t stand this ‘boredom’ thing,” grumbled Samson. “I’m the kind of guy who always needs to be doing something.”
“Don’t complain,” said Paveryua. “You were plenty busy before. Not to mention the reams of work that are waiting for you once we get there. Why don’t you think of this as a chance to smell the roses?”
“Guess you’ve got a point,” nodded Samson, on a bitter note. Samson had been a busy beaver up until the flotilla took off. It was his job to gather the materials and the personnel necessary to construct and maintain both the antimatter fuel factories that were to encircle Hyde’s sun, and the refueling stations that were to be established on the gas planet apparently named “Behrgwit.”
It didn’t take too much doing to secure the materials. The Empire fervently desired for the Countdom of Hyde to become a stable strategic base, and spared no effort cooperating to make that happen. In fact, Samson hadn’t needed to do much of anything on that front. The Star Forces provided as many as twenty mobile antimatter fuel factories (which were perfectly functional, if old). Plus, he was able to purchase any other materials from the comfort of his room at the inn using his wristgear, and on a preferential basis at that.
It was the people that were the problem. The labor market at the imperial capital was a seller’s market of unprecedented proportions. Societal analysts had determined that this was the point in time when supply and demand were most imbalanced. Since the pre-war years, imperial citizens were experienced technicians in all sorts of fields, and were therefore in great demand. Meanwhile, the imperial citizens who’d been trained in large numbers since after the war began were starting to spill out of the military, but they couldn’t exactly be called rich in experience just yet. Collecting servant vassals through public recruitment was never going to cut it, forcing Samson to pull all the strings he could to gather the folks they needed.
Tinkering with machines was a great joy in life, and his hobby had turned into a job. But his work at the capital was different from what he was accustomed to. He’d endured, thinking he’d employ workers for his future farm, but his new mission had exhausted him utterly.
Upon turning to face Paveryua at last, Samson noticed his subordinate was holding a glass. He grabbed him by the arm to sniff the aroma of its contents. It smelled of wormwood and alcohol.
“Are you drinking on the job?” admonished Samson.
“I’m not drinking just yet. I don’t smell of alcohol myself, see?”
“Then you were planning to have your fill starting now. And here, of all places.”
“Aren’t you drinking, too, Inspector Supervisor?”
“Yeah. Tea.” Samson held out his cup.
“Yurgh, what is this stuff?” said Paveryua, after sniffing the way Samson had.
“Maxillon tea. I’ve taken a strange liking to it recently.”
“That is strange,” Paveryua concurred. “But never mind that stuff. How about a little of this?”
Like magic, a bottle and a second glass appeared in Paveryua’s hands.
“I’m on the clock, my friend,” said Samson.
“Didn’t you say you were bored?”
“I was, of course. That’s what work usually is. Boring. Not that it’s impossible to have fun at work.”
“You don’t have to pull a face like you’re chewing on a fistful of coffee beans, Inspector Supervisor. The work that’s waiting for you on the flipside is the kind you love. You know, shouting at your poor, pathetic subordinates, kicking them in the backside, et cetera.”
“I have never kicked a subordinate.” Funnily enough, Paveryua’s words of consolation failed to lift his heart.
“What, really?” Paveryua gently pressed the glass in his direction.
“On my home planet, if you take care not to break any bones, we don’t call it a kick,” he explained, accepting the glass. “Once, when I was under pressure, I used my toes to catch the attention of a dimwit, but I didn’t ‘kick’ him.”
“I see,” said Paveryua, pouring booze with a knowing grin. “It’s true that if you hadn’t aroused his attention, neither him nor me nor you would be of this universe. I do think you could’ve been a bit gentler about it.”
“You think I had that kinda time? My life was on the line, too.”
“Are you saying you didn’t have fun, sir?”
“Oh, Paveryua, my lad, don’t misjudge me. I’m actually a very gentle man at heart. Would I ever lay a hand on another soul, or do something that could be misinterpreted as such?”
“You’re not angry, are you, Inspector Supervisor?” asked Paveryua, a worried look on his face.
“Why would I be angry? It’s not like anyone’s insulted my cooking.”
“I could never insult your cooking if I wanted to. The meals you made me all those times were great. Oh, that reminds me, I have to warn my new colleagues never to speak ill of the meals you cook.”
“Don’t. I like it when people give their honest opinions. Complimenting me out of obligation won’t make me any happier.”
“But you said you’d get angry if your food was insulted, didn’t you?”
“If somebody tells me my cooking tastes bad, they are insulting something, but it ain’t the food.”
“What’re they insulting, then? Also, what do we toast to?”
“The Countdom of Hyde, obviously — the system of strange and bizarre creatures. Here’s hoping at least one species makes for some good booze.” They clinked. “And to answer your question, they’re insulting their own defective taste buds.”
“Gotcha.” Paveryua chugged, and mumbled to himself: “Glad I left the military. I’d never be able to stand above subordinates, not while I’m lacking your tremendous self-confidence, Inspector Supervisor. And I have a bad habit of viewing myself objectively, so I’m just not suited to rising in the Star Forces ranks. Actually, forget the Star Forces — I might not ever see a promotion anywhere.”
“Yep,” said Samson, drinking down his glass.
“I was kind of hoping you’d argue against that,” said Paveryua, visibly wounded even as he poured Samson some more.
“Argue against that? Why would I do that? You want me to say, ‘be more confident in yourself,’ or ‘three days and you’ll know the ropes of being a commander’? I don’t want you going back to the Star Forces! You know how hard it is to come by a subordinate like you? Look — with you, I don’t need to give you a love tap with my toes to get your attention, and you can handle the usual stuff fairly easily. It’s just that you tend to be slow to make decisi
ons, so it’d be dangerous to make you a superior officer. And with the Star Forces in their current state, you probably would’ve made it to inspector supervisor rank on some small ship soon enough. So by retiring from service, you’ve avoided a disaster.”
“Please, could you stick to either praising me, or disparaging me, but not both?”
“Hey, pal, I’m nothing if not consistent.”
“You certainly are.”
“Let me tell you, being an inspector supervisor isn’t just bossing people around. You’ve also got to take care of the folks with the blue hair.”
“Are you referring to the Basrogrh?” said Paveryua, looking distinctly skeptical. “You took care of them, Inspector Supervisor? I seem to recall one time when I saluted Vanguard Starpilot Sobash by your quarters, only to find he was carrying your dead drunk form. Is that what you call taking care of someone on your home planet, sir? Because on mine, it’s the opposite.”
Just as Samson was about to retort, somebody entered the office.
“Ah crap,” said Samson, ducking his head. “I can’t stand that woman.”
“I see,” said Paveryua, positively delighted.
“The ship Her Highness the Royal Princess was on was attacked! How can you be so relaxed!?” accosted Sehrnye. “And could that be alcohol I’m seeing? Unlike the Abh, you can get drunk, ruhyrh (flotilla lessee)!”
Samson didn’t mind getting treated like some pale shadow of an Abh; there wasn’t the faintest fiber of him that bought into the delusion that he was an Abh in anything but name. The laws of the Empire could claim what they wanted — he was a proud man of Midgrat.
“That’s not entirely correct,” said Samson, ignoring the latter of the two questions. “The ship that got attacked was the one that was going to be the manor for the House of Hyde. But the Captain wasn’t on that ship.”
“I don’t know who this ‘captain’ is, but what do they have to do with Fïac Lartnér?” she pressed.
“Ah,” said Samson, smiling awkwardly, “Fïac Lartnér is the Captain. I’ve gotten so used to calling Her Highness by her military title.”
Dinner With Family Page 11
